Andrew Gidney
Personal Writing: Fiction
Reality
I do not live. I am a creature, a thing. There are some that have called me 'monster' without knowing the truth. Without wanting to know. They would not understand anyway; their little minds would shrink away from the awful reality of my existence. I do not live, I just am. Forget what you think you know about me and my kind. The legends and myths were created by those that were the first, and kept alive by those that came after. We are not murderers. We do not live, but we do feed. On blood, as you might suspect. But only when what we call the Hunger takes us. Other times, we eat as you mortals do, the breads and meats of Mother Earth. But when the Hunger takes us, then we are hunters. And you humans are sheep. We allow our chosen prey to know we are coming, and what we are. The knowing causes the fear to grow, and the blood becomes sweeter. Warmer. When we take our prey, it is almost hot, so hot that it eases the pain and the coldness within us that is the Hunger. Blood, though, is only a part of what we feed on. We feed upon the moment of death that releases of energy that is the soul. Oh, yes. Souls do exist. So does God. Does that surprise you, to hear one such as myself speak of God? It should not. God created all. He is the Master. We fear Him, for it is by His hands that we are most often slain. His hands, you ask? The priests and other holy men and women that perform exorcisms, practically the only means by which we can be slain. Our souls are exorcised, cast out to the final Darkness, where it is His face we see, mocking us with His pity and sadness over the loss of our souls. How else can we be slain? By fire, or by dismemberment. The destruction of our hearts can also work, but please, no wooden stakes. They make a hole, but do nothing more. Other means are myth. Silver does not work upon us, and neither does garlic. The sun is but a star, not a searing light that turns us to dust. Holy objects, such as crosses, make us uncomfortable, but only the oldest, most vile of us are harmed by them. Why am I telling you this? Simple. I do not live. I exist. And I am tired of existing. For five hundred years, I have existed, and have never longed for mortality like I do now. I wish for death, a real death. I want this blackened, twisted thing I call a soul to be released and cast out, for I hate it, and I hate myself.
